Talking To Ghosts
by domina tempore
Summary: "After you died, I used to talk to you like you were still around. Literally, out loud; whole conversations about...about nothing. And then one day you started answering." Tag to "Succession".


**Alias:**_ Talking to Ghosts_

_Disclaimer: Alias and all of its characters, locations, etc. belong to their respecitve owners; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement intended!_

_Author's Note: This fic rolled around in my head for a long time. In the second episode of season two ("Succession"), Sydney goes to the school where Vaughn is teaching, and they have this conversation about Vaughn coming back to the CIA. And he has this brilliant little monologue (which I'll quote below) about what he did after she died and how it effected him. There was something about the image of him sitting alone talking to his dead girlfriend that really struck a chord with me, and it demanded to be written. _

**ovovovo**

"_After you died, I used to talk to you like you were still around. Literally, out loud; whole conversations about...about nothing. The weather, should I get a new car? Should I have another drink? And then one day you started answering. I mean, I could hear you in my head like you were right next to me, Sydney. And while rationally I knew I was a guy who stayed up nights drinking, talking to his dead girlfriend, still, I couldn't stop..." _

_- __Michael Vaughn_

**ovovovo**

_"Don't do it."_ Vaughn looked up in shock when he heard Sydney's voice in his ear. He glanced around the crowded bar, searching for the woman that he knew did not exist. He _knew_ that she could not possibly be there; he had buried her! This was all in his head.

With a sigh, he turned back to his drink. it was his fourth. _Or fifth..._ If he were to be completely honest, head lost count after the third. But who cared about honesty these days?

He raised the glass to his lips. _"Vaughn, don't you dare."_

Amber liquid splashed over the rim of his glass as he slammed it down on the counter. When he turned around again, an etheral Sydney stood behind him, her glance disapproving. Vaughn swore. "Sydney, stop it! You're not here. You _can't_ be real."

"Look at what you're doing to yourself," Sydney shook her head, and Vaughn watched the bar lights reflecting off of her hair. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

"You're not my mother," he muttered. "You can't tell me what to do."

"Michael, _think_ about what you're doing. There are still other people who care about you. You need to stop - "

"Stop it!" he shouted, lurching halfway off of his barstool. He was vaguely aware that the other patrons of the bar were now staring at him, but he didn't care. All he really saw was Sydney, still standing quite calmly and sadly in front of him. "You're dead!" he shouted at her. "You left me alone, and you have no right to try giving me any advice about what I should or should not be doing. _You died_."

"Yes, I did." She nodded. "But you haven't yet. Is this really how you want to spend the rest of your days?" She tilted her head with a pointed look at his drink. "Do you think that this is what_ I_ would want you to live for?"

Vaughn shook his head, mumbling to himself. She wasn't real, she had no power over him. _She is dead!_ He reached behind him until his fingers encountered the glass that he'd abandoned moments before, and he hurled it at her with all his strength. It sailed through her corporeal form and smashed into the far wall. Sydney smiled at him sadly. "That's one way to get rid of it, I suppose."

Defiant, Vaughn deliberately turned his back on her and ordered another drink. He was oblivious to the nervous whispers of the other patrons around him. She might refuse to leave him alone, but that didn't mean that he had to acknowledge her any more than he did his half-drunk audience. He accepted a new glass from the bartender, studying it for a moment before tossing down its contents. He winced as it slid down his throat. So maybe the Sydney-ghost had pegged him exactly right; but she was just a figment of his imagination, wasn't she? And maybe his delusions even had an element of truth to them; maybe he'd finally be in a place one day where he could move on with his life. Maybe he'd even find someone else he could care about.

But not tonight.

He motioned again for someone to refill his glass, to drown out the painful voice of Sydney Bristow.

_fin._

**ovovovo**

_A/N: There were other conversations in my head like this, but this is only one so far that has submitted itself to the page. I'd like to write more, though, if anyone is interested and if my Muse agrees? (:_


End file.
